AND SO I SAID, WHO DOESN'T?
by Scarlet Garter
Summary: Love Tommy? Megan not so much? This super-short story is for you. That cute little Officer Dunn is just what Tommy needs to help him GET OVER Megan. Rated T for a couple of words or thoughts the younger set probably already knows but shouldn't.
1. Chapter 1

_DISCLAIMER: No copyright infringement is intended, and I make no claims on "Body of Proof". I am humbly grateful for the opportunity to play with some of the characters._

_AND SO I SAID, "WHO DOESN'T?"_

It just isn't fair. A sweet guy like Tommy Sullivan all hung up on a sarcastic, ill-tempered shrew like Megan Hunt.

I'm Officer Riley Dunn. At least, that's how he sees me - just another uniform. For the longest time, he didn't even know my first name. I like my job and I'm good at it. Hope to make detective myself one day, but not until I get a little more experience. Maybe five or six years down the road.

I've had a romance or two, nothing serious. It's not easy sustaining a relationship when you're a cop. Civilians don't understand the pressures of the job. Another cop only works if you're very, very lucky. But the first time Tommy walked through the door, I took one look and felt my heart start flopping around like a perp zapped with a taser.

Okay, so he's ten or twelve years older than me. Older men are hot. Experienced. Know what to do to make a woman feel _wonderful_ in bed. Oh, ghod, what am I _thinking_?

Okay, so he's a superior officer, and rules against fraternization are strict. Maybe, since I'm a 'uniform' and he's in the detective unit we might squeak by on a technicality if someone ratted us out - Oh, ghod, what _am_ I thinking?

But the biggest stumbling block to my little fantasies ever coming true is Dr. Hunt. I've seen how the know-it-all M. E. treats him and wondered why he doesn't tell her to take her attitude and shove it. I asked a few questions. No one in our precinct knows much about Sullivan's past, but I did discover he and Hunt have history. From the looks of it, he's never gotten over it. What chance does a lady cop have of breaking through a barrier as impregnable as that?

So, I've bided my time. Made myself useful. Hidden my delight when we worked a case together. Kept my cool when he chose me to back him up when the rabies case came along. Then I damn near let him get chewed to pieces by that maniac hiding in the old warehouse.

We'd crept into a dark, echoing building, just me, Tommy, and another uniform. I didn't like it one bit when Tommy split us up, but it wasn't my place to argue. I was too far away to help when I heard the commotion - cans crashing to the floor, shelves tipping over, the hideous growling of some crazed animal. Without a thought for my own safety, I charged back the way I'd come, searching for the corridor Tommy had chosen. When the shot came, my heart simply stopped. Didn't start up again until I saw Tommy staggering to his feet. The bad guy was down, Tommy was bleeding, but alive. Thank you St. Michael the Archangel!

After letting him almost get killed, I wasn't sure how he'd react when I tracked him down at the medical center to deliver a report I knew he needed. He sounded pissed when he left the autopsy room to see what I wanted. Maybe he was just surprised to see me in 'civvies'. I'd taken time to change into something feminine, brush out my hair, dab on some blusher, and spritz on a mist of Chanel No. 5. I must have looked worried because the first thing he did was assure me the incident at the warehouse was no black mark against me. I took a deep breath of relief, forgetting I'd put on a sweater that was maybe a little too snug for someone who's built like me. It definitely got his attention. Had he finally realized there's more to me than a Kevlar vest?

His smile as he thanked me for bringing the report made me go all gooey inside. And made me hurt all the more for him. I saw the look Dr. Hunt shot me when Tommy came out to see why I was there. She doesn't want him, but she doesn't want him to have someone new, even just a friendly colleague. Bitch.

I don't know what transpired between them after he shot Mason Geary. I was busy at the station, writing reports. When he came in, he looked like a beaten man. My heart ached for the guy. Hoping to cheer him up, I blurted the first thing I could think of. "That was some fancy shooting earlier." After the last couple of days, it was probably the last thing he wanted to hear. But he thanked me and made some self-deprecating comment about what would have happened if he'd missed.

And then he asked if I liked hockey. Huh?

"Of course," I said. "Who doesn't?"

Not quite meeting my eye, he casually mentioned having tickets to the next Flyers game. "I'd love to go," I told him, and he looked so surprised I had to fight back a giggle.

Fight back a giggle? I wanted to jump up and down and squeal my delight. Spin in circles 'til I was dizzy. It took all my willpower to act like a sane, sensible co-worker arranging to attend a sporting event with someone from the office. Reminding myself the _only_ reason he'd asked me was because Megan had undoubtedly turned him down helped dampen my enthusiasm to a manageable level. And one other minor problem.

Time for a reality check: Off duty, I'm a girly girl. I hate sports! I've never attended a hockey game in my life.

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I invite any other writers to take up the story from here. What happens on their way to the arena when _T_ommy starts talking hockey, and Riley doesn't have a clue what he's talking about?_


	2. Part 2

PART TWO

It's the next day and I'm scheduled off. I spend the morning cramming my brain with every fact and statistic I can find about hockey in general and the Flyers in particular. It isn't what I'm into, and I retain very little: innings, pucks, Stanley Cup, penalties. I shudder. Why can't he be interested in something more cultured? Like professional wrestling.

What are my interests? As I said, I'm a girly girl. I like the theatre. Ballet. Museums. But my true passion is Cirque du Soleil, that wonderful kaleidoscope of acrobats, trapeze artists, hoop dancers and a double dozen of other magnificently costumed performers. I own every DVD the company has produced and have seen every clip posted on YouTube. I've wanted to attend a performance for years, but somehow never managed to arrange it.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, Suzi, a sorority sister I keep in touch with, called. She had reservations for an upcoming show at the Camden Waterfront. Was I still ga-ga over "a bunch of overdressed acrobats?"

Was I! In fact, I needed to look for something suitable to wear to that performance while I was shopping for something not too garish in white, orange and black - the Flyers' colors - to wear…to…Friday's…game?

Oh, no. Don't tell me they're the same night. Please, please let me be wrong!

Frantic, I call up my e-mails from Suzi, looking for the one telling me the date. Which one? Which one? Don't tell me I deleted it - there!

Sure enough, it's tomorrow night.

I spend the rest of the day in a daze, trying to decide what to do: go with Suzi to a show I've longed to see, or go to a stupid hockey game…with the hottest detective in Philly.

In the end, it is recalling Tommy's look of surprised pleasure that makes me pick up the phone and call Suzi.

"Don't worry about it," Suzi says with a conspiratorial laugh. "I can still cancel without a penalty. But it comes with a price."

"What's that?"

"Call me _after_. I want _every _detail." She didn't mean of the hockey game.

* * *

Now it's Friday evening. I'm a mess. Something's up, and I don't know what.

This morning when I get to work, Tommy's staring at his computer monitor and talking on the phone. Looking serious.

I've been on the job long enough to understand work comes first. Before birthdays, before Christmas dinner, before hockey games. So I'm half-way expecting him to say a major case has landed in his lap and he has to cancel. I'd understand. Heck, I'd probably be relieved.

Tommy throws the handset back into the cradle, he so pissed. Then he sees me.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he says back. "Are we still on for tonight?"

"Sure. What time?" Was that a gaff? Shouldn't a _fan _know what time the games start?

"Mmm…how about 6:30? We can grab a bite to eat first." His smile looks forced. He's not at all happy about something.

"Sounds good," I say. "Where shall we meet?"

He stands and gives me a look I haven't seen since my training officer caught me 10-52ing Dispatch for an ambulance when I should have said 10-45 for an animal carcass. "I'll pick you up," he says.

"Oh. Okay." I reach for my notepad and pen. "I'll give you my address-"

"I know where you live," he says.

I am too stunned to utter another word.

Right after that, he disappears.

I mean, disappears, completely off the radar. Usually, unless he's working a hot case, he's in and out of the office all day. Of course I was busy with my own assignments and might have missed him, but I heard others asking where he is and nobody knows. Anyone trying to call him only gets voice-mail.

I'm starting to worry. Suppose someone jumped him. Left him bleeding in an ally. Or worse. What could be worse? Well, Megan might have called with some 'urgent' need for help only he on the entire force could provide.

I shove that thought out of my head and try to concentrate on my job. I'd rather be on the streets, but we all have to take our turn manning the office. This is my week to polish a desk with my rear. Time can't decide whether to fly or drag its feet. When I'm finally off duty, I waste no time heading for home and a shower, and perfume, and fresh make-up.

I lay out the hideous orange and white outfit I put together, which, along with black accessories will make my ensemble for the evening. White cashmere V-neck sweater over a Victoria's Secret bra. Why are all my sweaters so snug? I haven't gained an ounce since earning my badge. Nice, sleek, above-the-knee orange skirt. It'll be cold in an ice rink, but I can't wear long skirts. They make me look like a Munchkin. Black hose, black pumps, black hand-bag, black jacket. I feel like a Halloween decoration.

The doorbell rings. _Ohmigod, it's Tommy…._ I consider making a break for it out the back door. One minor problem: my apartment doesn't have a back door. Okay, the fire escape?

I let him in and try not to dissolve into a puddle of syrup at having Tommy here in my apartment. Alone. I mentally stomp on the image of him picking me up and striding down the hall to my bedroom _a la_ Rhett Butler and Scarlet O'Hara.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," he replies, giving me the once-over. "You look great."

So does he. In fact, he looks almost too good. Recent haircut. Light gray sports coat over a black turtleneck sweater. I don't dare let my gaze drift any lower, but I'd bet money the trousers match his jacket and he has a fresh shoe-shine. He's holding something half hidden behind the flare of his jacket.

I've been mulling it over almost non-stop since I got home. Trying to decide what to do. Pretend an interest I don't have in the game and take my chances on bluffing him, or tell the truth and risk him walking out, mad.

I remember him questioning me about the report I'd brought him at the medical center. Had I read it? When I 'fessed up, it seemed to amuse him. Okay, then, the truth. If he gets mad and walks out, so be it.

"I have a confession to make," I say.

"I have a confession to make," he says at the same instant. We laugh.

Certain he's going to tell me something - Megan - has come up and he wants to tell me in person he has to cancel, I say, "You first."

"You first," he says at the same time.

We just stare at each other.

Then Tommy says, "Um…about those tickets to the game. I…um…didn't think I'd be going after all. Didn't want to go alone…. I know you're going to be disappointed, but I offered them on Craig's List before I asked you. Before I could remove them, someone had wired in the payment."

He shifts from foot to foot. One hand pushes into his pocket. The other is still behind his back. What the heck is he hiding?

"The game's completely sold out," he says. "I've been all over trying to get seats. Called in every favor I'm owed, leaned on every scalper on every street corner in town. No one will sell their tickets for any price."

"Oh," I say. Da-a-a-a-arn.

"We'll go to another game, I promise. And…I thought maybe we could do something else, since…you're all dolled up."

He noticed! Or maybe it was just the team colors.

"Sure," I say, as relieved as a prom queen discovering she's _not_ pregnant. "Hey, I'm starved. Let's go get something to eat and figure out what to do."

"Um…actually, I have something in mind," he says as I grab my hand-bag and jacket.

_Me, too, but probably not the same thing…._

"Okay." I give him my best smile. "What?"

"Well, I know it's not as cool as hockey, or a basketball game, but I promise you, it's really something to see. The tickets came up on Craig's list when I was trying to cancel mine, so I grabbed them. Have you ever heard of something called Cirque du Soleil?"

I pin on he pink and yellow nosegay he's been hiding behind his back. It clashes horribly with my outfit, but I don't care. He opens the car door and closes it gently when I'm settled inside.

"By the way," he says as he starts the engine, "what was your confession?"

THE END


End file.
